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"Yet because of the stubbornness of one individual ..."
"Oh no! Oh no!" she cried, as the valuable dish flew out of her hand, smashing irreversibly on the auction room floor. She looked wildly round. "I didn't... I couldn't have... I mean, you all saw...." Indeed, everyone had. The kindest thing to do was sack her. Unexpectedly, for this was a quiet, trusty sort of youth who turned and hurled his scalding dinner all over the servers, the warders had to zoom in for action - at this exemplary custody centre. "No! no! no!" he managed to gasp out, either in disbelief at his own untypical failure to maintain the peace or at the consequences, for it was pretty devotedly they lunged at him and dragged him off, thumbs twisted unreaslistically behind his back. On a notable occasion, for it was not often a younger priest was entrusted with cathedral duties and asked to assist at Communion, even though winter was a chilly experience up on the heights on Dumberg, this acolyte of the cup initiated the most holy rite by the disaster of dashing the very juice of salvation into the astonished eye-shut faces of the faithful, kneeling at the rail. The very red wine - or whatever you like to think of it as - dribbled from their brows to their sobbing mouths. Had he just tripped or seriously fallen from grace? It was spoken of, but not very realistically, as an unhappy seizure. Three isolated incidents, that would have circulated in very diferent spheres of life, had not the newest reporter of the Dumberg Gazette happened to hear of them on the same day, in three different pubs - one near the antique market, one where the warders were wont to sup, and one where the landlord's wife happened to work in a dry-cleaning business. New at his job, and only freshly granted a NUJ card, Steve prided himself on his contacts, and was already known as a liberal supplier of a pint to those with a story to tell. He could not yet afford the sort of cash that tip-offs from police and ambulance men command, but he was confident of working up towards it. One day. In the meantime, he drafted three classic paragraphs, and waved them hopefully under the editor's keen nose. At least they raised a laugh. "Oh yes? And have you checked your sources? Have you cleared it with the Home Office and the Church? Or is it our turn to upset the antiques trade?" And with that, laid them aside. Kindly he turned Steve by his shoulders and steered him back to a not very distinguished desk. "Work!" he commanded, and dashed off to an impromptu lunch appointment at the usual pub. Where in fact he encountered exactly the same anecdotes as Steve had. "Surprised my young reporter hasn't linked them into an X-file by now!" he chortled to his comrades in glass. At about that time, Steve, tapping his pencil on a pad, began to wonder if there might not be some underlying trend here, something to investigate that would really hit the headlines. Lucky no one else had spotted that. He didn't want anyone taking over this case. He was going to have to be careful. Steve - he said - play this one close to the chest. Checking the sources - that was a start. But the unhappy priest was not receiving bedside visitors today, after his 'lapse'; the prisoner, on casual enquiry, was unavailable, and not likely to be talking to anyone for a while, it seemed. That only left the miserable salesroom girl, and luckily he did manage to get a word with her. She was convinced some unknown force had whipped the plate from her hands and dashed it to the floor, in the middle of the bidding too, quite without any help frorm her! "It was scary," she admitted. "Hmmm," said Steve, noting that her well-developed body ruled out pre-pubescent poltergeist powers, though he liked the sound of that. "Did you see anything? Or feel anything? - like an invisible hand, or -" "No, it just flew from me hand, of its own accord, like - " "Not a flying saucer?" Steve groaned, beginning to loss interest. She looked upset though; "I've been freetened ever since," she protested, her voice quavering. "Has anything else happened then?" - hopefully - wondering if there might be some evidence to photo. But "Na." "Oh." "I never broke owt before." "Bad luck,” he commented sympathetically. For the rest of the afternoon, Steve wondered round - in his lunch-hour - haunting likely accident zones - the market hall with its china dog stalls, the antique street, with its fabulous displays, even the loading bay at the cider factory. A discrete camera was ever-ready in his pocket, but seemed unlikely to be needed. He brought it out anyway, and took a few gratuitous snaps of a stall-holder parading a teapot above his head while singing out its bargain beauty. When - "Zap!" went the camera . Out of his hand, into the milk-jugs and coffee-ware. He stared in disbelief. "Bugger me!" he cooed as he looked at his hands in disbelief. "Did I do that?" "Bugger me," echoed the stall-holder, dropping the teapot, and gazing horror-struck at the massacre of his pristine china. The sound of the teapot hitting the ground, as though in delayed action, made them both jump. "What did you want to do that for?" "What did you want to do that for?" asked the editor, who had summoned Steve into his office. "I mean, what on earth possessed you?" "Not possessed sir. I reckon it was an energy pulse. Or a sort of freak motion wave. Could be an earth spirit though. Or a sardonic demon..." "Rubbish." "Look, there've been those other cases- " "Bollocks." "Have you seen the print though? Must be the best action shot ever!" "Film ruined, cam'ra ruined." "Well, that's a pity." "Isn't it." "I'm telling you it flew out of my hands, like a thing possessed." "And now unpossessed. Effing well and truly unpossessable. Take a tip. Next time I send you to fetch a group photo of the dogs at the training centre, just do it. OK?" (A mumbled yessir.) "After all," condescending to explain, "that's our bread-and-butter in Dumberg: weddings, late lamenteds, disappearing garden gnomes - " "That's another -" "No it isn't. Those postcards from Gibraltar or wherever are FAKES. People send them," he added crushingly, as though Steve hadn't grasped that yet. Feeling a bit miffed, Steve retired to the back stairs to think things through. Maybe he could write it up and send it to the Fortean Times? Anonymously. No, they'd all know it was him (at work that is). Drop the nationals a hint? Again, he'd get blamed, trying to work freelance. But he was certain something was afoot. More evidence was the thing. Going out and getting it looked like proving tricky though. Maybe he could - aye! that was it. He strode over to the small ads desk and borrowed their computer for a minute. What did they care? He inserted his own mini-ad, without asking. Odd occurrences? it read, Phone 0777 etc. (The mobile cost should put off joke callers he reckoned. Smart work.) And that was how he met Dr Prail at Dumberg University. "It's history of course, but it may interest you. I assume you're some sort of local researcher?" "A reporter, actually," said Steve. "On the Gazette? Well, that's all to the good. You see, I was working through the Gazette for the 1960's," he went on, "and came across these items. [Pointing to a few pages beside him.] Came in a cluster, actually. I copied them out. Might interest you. Can't use them myself. Not academically related, more's the pity. But I couldn't resist taking some notes. You could be just the chap to follow them up." He laid before Steve some 2 pages of neatly written notes, transcripts of newspaper articles - from his newspaper alright - not much chance of a hoax there - and dates and pages and columns noted in each case. "Can I read them now?" Prail glanced at his watch, as though assessing Steve's likely reading rate at words per minute. "Best take them with you. They're spare photocopies. Good luck." Beats searching for yourself, thought Steve, as he left the oddly polite world of academia and stomped over to a public bench in the Palace Green. He lit up.
LEARNING IN CHAOS said the first one. The other items were much of the same date. MAYOR DRENCHED - said the next - when a fountain went berserk and turned on the Mayor in the course of a harmless civic parade. A freak wind?... And, a delight in any age:
HORSE FOUND ON TOILET ROOF Sure sounds like the same sort of thing. (As today, he meant.) Then he went over the cuttings again. One, two, three. Almost like a crescendo... He checked the date on his watch. Wow! - that close the end of the month? And suddenly it all clicked. But surely not - ? No. Not every year, but... This was going to be it! The big one. He ran back to the office. "What's on for tomorrow?" he shouted, not even trying to contain his excitement. "Let's see. You've got a Parish Bazaar in the morning. Then..." "No, I mean, what else is on? What's really on?" "Well, the mid-morning's that magician's funeral -" "That's it!" "Hang on, this was the guy who spent a spell in prison for molesting -" "Yeah, yeah, I know, for molesting youngsters that ask favours, I know." "No, it was young -" "Can I cover it?" Steve broke in. "Certainly not." "Will you have a photographer there?" "Let's see. Jennings, I expect." "Well, take my tip; tell him to take two cameras." "Very clever; we don't all smash cameras for fun, you know." "Fun's the word," said Steve, and left them guessing. The next morning was rainy. He dashed through the Bazaar by having a quiet word with the helpers before it opened. He got the wedding details before the main cars even arrived and telled them the photographer would be along later. Then he ran over to the cemetery. Small crowd, considering. No trouble spotting them. Just this one burial. But that burial was -
His mobile rang. Heads turned. "Press," he explained; "sorry - have to be contactable." Unconcerned, he fell in pace with one of the mourners as they walked, glumly enough, back toward their cars.
"Hello - I'm from the Gazette. Like the photographer. Sad occasion. And a strange day. I don't know quite how to put this - but has anything odd been happening - I mean in the family - not the loss of - just little things?"
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